An Angel In The Making
by faunling
Summary: An ongoing Hannigail series from the perspective of Hannibal.
1. The Rare Gift

Abigail's gentle eyes grew dark and fierce as she approached the blue-faced victim. A twisted fascination overcame her as she peered into the veiny eyes, the gaping mouth like a gasping fish. I had strangled this man in my office, and she watched from the far corner. She surveyed his blotched neck, his vascular hands, and the starved, blank expression in his lifeless face.

"Are we taking him home now?"

"Yes."

She continued to search over him with heightened curiosity. "Alright." She mumbled finally, rising from her squatted position and nodding solemnly at me.

We put him in a bag and carefully tied him up like a gift, placing him in the trunk and driving home without a word exchanged.

"I want to gut him." She expressed once we had arrived home.

"Alright, you can do that. I will help you."

"No, I want to do it myself. I've done it before with deer. You had the privilege to kill him."

"I wouldn't consider it much of a privilege rather than a duty. He was impeccably rude."

"I saw."

I handed her the knife. "At the sternum."

"Yes, Dad, I know."

_Dad._ My heart quivered behind its rotting cage in longing. _Dad_ a single syllable so powerful as to shake me to my abject core. I watched her with anticipation as she pressed the blade into his bare chest, through the skin. "Very good, Abigail." I muttered, my mouth already salivating.

She continued to cut through his body with the precision of a surgeon. I beamed with pride, mostly, but a part of me regretting exposing her to these sights and mangling whatever was left of her innocent youth. At least she is mine.

I rested a palm on her shoulder as she tore away and carefully plucked each organ like ripe fruit, setting them aside for my inspection.

"Beautiful." The gore stained her delicate hands, covering the fingers of her gloves in bright red like expensive nail polish. She licked her lips as she dug deeper, as she broke his ribs, as she pulled his veins apart.

"What will we make with him?"

"I will see what recipes I have."

"You don't use every part like my father did, do you?"

"I find no need to. I am no hunter."

"I know, I know. Still, I feel a little guilty. It's just murder now, isn't it?"

"Not at all. Don't trouble yourself with guilt for wasting his parts. He was worthless." This was not enough to convince her, so I tried again. "Besides, you're quite an ethical butcher."

I managed to pull a smile from her, but still melancholy graced her eyes, tugging at her brows.

"I think that is enough for now, Abby." I gently squeezed her shoulder and she put down the dripping knife. "I will take over the rest."

What a relief to see her want to burrow that pretty little head under my wing, but how could I destroy her innocence even further than I already have? What would she benefit, honestly, from becoming a beast like me?

* * *

After dinner, Abigail had fell asleep while reading on the couch (from a full stomach, no doubt). I left her there, careful not to disturb her as I cleaned up.

The moon reared her glistening face, bleak and bland compared to my Abigail. She rested with limbs stretched across the couch, delicately posed as though for a painting. I stood there for some time admiring the work of art presented before me, the moonlight streamlined across her figure, the tide of her breathing leaving me in awe of her trance-like beauty. I had to capture this intimate moment, I decided, and sat in front of her with a sketchpad and scalpel-sharpened pencil.

Fortunately, she stayed asleep throughout this process. I managed to draw several portraits of her, including close-ups of her lunar face. But each one, despite my skills, could not accurately capture her essence. No, not a single form of etched lines and carefully maneuvered pen points could ever do her justice.

And just as the thought slithered away, she awoke with pale, drifting eyes that met mine tenderly. My pencil began to quiver slightly within my grasp.

"Hello, Abigail." I whispered.

"What time is it?" she responded weakly, covering her yawning mouth with a slender hand.

"2 am. You fell asleep on the couch."

"Oh...Right." she began to raise up, resting on an elbow. Then her gaze grew quizzical. "Why are you up?"

I quickly conjured a lie. "I couldn't sleep. I thought I should stay with you. Maybe watching you rest so deeply would make me tired."

She cracked a small grin and ran her fingers through her pillow-tangled hair.

Abby then eyed the pencil in my hand. "What's that?"

"I was sketching."

"Can I see?"

I held up the drawings toward her. She reached out to take the book from me and her index finger brushed momentarily against mine.

My heart could not stay still.

"These are me..." she muttered to herself. "Do I really look like that when I sleep?" she smiled.

"Much more stunning."


	2. Shelter And Storm

Abigail took a sip of coffee cupped between her palms. I sat on the other side of the table, stealing glances at her whenever I could. Her lips grew rosy as the hot coffee warmed her.

The plates were empty but littered with pancake crumbs stuck by drops of syrup with stains of bacon and the residue of pepper from the eggs. A traditional breakfast was her favorite meal. I thought this would please her, but this morning she felt distant, as though she had dissolved in her coffee with the cream and sugar.

"Thank you for the food." Abigail began, sitting her empty mug on the table.

"It was my pleasure."

She sighed. "I kind of wish I didn't have to go back."

"I know."

"I think this feels more like home than anywhere else."

I smiled faintly. We sat in silence, admiring the delicacy of morning, savoring the company while it lasted. It might be weeks, months, until we could be this intimate again.

"Do you have everything?"

"I didn't bring anything but my sweater."

"Just checking."

I rose from the seat, signaling Abigail to follow. Reluctantly, she did. She folded the sweater and carried it under her arm as they approached the door.

Right as I placed my hand on the doorknob, a loud crash of thunder startled us. I carefully pulled open the door to see a pour of rain outside. Fat dollops of rain crashing to the pavement, wind howling, trees rocking violently side to side. The sky was ashen with tones of violet. Lightning struck in the distance.

We exchanged glances. I closed the door.

"Well then, I guess you'll be staying for a bit longer."

"Really?"

"At least until the storm dies down. Then you have to go back."

Abigail grinned like a child and hugged me. She smelled of maple.

"It may not be long…" I began, rubbing her back as he embraced her. "But we'll make the best of it."

She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling. More time, another chance.

A low roar of thunder caused the house to vibrate. She jolted. I pulled her to my chest.

"I always hated storms when I was little." she began with a sad laugh. "I would scream and run to Dad. Wrap my arms around his legs. He told me I'd be alright. He would make it go away…"

I silenced her with a small peck on her forehead. Goosebumps began to form on her arms. I rubbed her skin and walked her to the couch.

"Let's sit down."

She sat down, holding herself and shivering. The storm outside continued to thrash violently.

"Here we go." I soothed, tucking her into a thick, white quilt. I sat down next to her and brushed the hair from her sweet face. "You're with me now. I will protect you, if you let me."

She looked hopeful. There was a definite gleam in her sad, blue eyes.

The house shuddered with the impact of the storm outside and the lights began to flicker overhead.

I sighed and placed a hand on her lap. "I was fascinated by storms as a child. It was a pleasant sound, rather than silence. Like white noise. It was a song of rage and despair. It was beautiful. The sky was violet, the lights crackled in the distance like fireworks. The smell…"

Abigail leaned in closed to me.

"And afterwords, the world was calm. More tranquil than before it."

"They say that about life, too. The calm after the storm. The beauty after the hardship. They tell me I'll be strong. I've heard it all."

"Well, it's good to hear it again. You are strong, Abigail. You have always been strong. You will only be stronger now. I can smell the thunder inside you."

She smiled thoughtfully and wrapped her arms around me.

A loud boom rattled the house and the power flipped out to darkness.

Childishly, Abigail buried her head into his chest.

"Afraid of the dark, are we?"

"…Maybe."

I chuckled gently and stroked her hair. Her figure was barely distinguishable in the blackness. "In the darkness one may — "

"No more metaphorical bullshit, please. Just hold me."

"Alright."

The white noise of the storm was hypnotic. The muffled splashing of water on the roads, into the grass. The growl of the sky. The wind screeching, slicing through the trees.  
Hesitantly I leaned to her. She rose to meet my mouth. Our lips ghosted around each other. Her heartbeat increased, the sound of her breathing was all I could hear. My tongue grazed hers before fully taking her. His hands found her waist as she draped her arms over my shoulders.

And we kissed.

Lightning struck a tree outside.

The soft sounds of skin seemed to outweigh the noise of the disaster and rain.

The sound of fabric sliding off bodies.

Faint mumbling and blood rushing.

The low creak of the couch as a body lowers, shuffling sounds, a zipper.

Clothes being thrown to the opposite side of the room.

Warm, heavy breath, a trace of a moan.

The smooth sound of bare skin brushing against bare skin.

A slight whimper.

The gasp from sudden touch.

Lightning strikes and masks the sound of a loud groan.


	3. Huntsman

Another day with Abigail in my office. I had not seen her in a few days, but luckily there was a bit of free time in her schedule and she had come to visit me.

However, this time was different. I asked her to assist me with cleaning instead - dusting, sorting books, vacuuming the carpets, and the like.

It seemed almost normal to any other bystander.

"Could you please arrange these books for me, Abigail?" I asked, handing her a stack of dull-colored hardbacks.

"Sure."

Abigail took the pile and climbed up the steps to the shelves, carefully putting them in their desired slot.

I sorted papers on my desk, putting away certificates into folders and rearranging the placement of notebooks and pens to pass time.

The room was dead silent, aside from the faint shuffle of paper, until I heard the delicate sounds of her feet as she climbed down the ladder and reclined on the couch behind me.

I leaned over my desk, pretending to raid through drawers as I looked across to her. She was reading a book. Grimm's fairy tales.

"What are you reading?"

"Snow White. It was my favorite when I was little."

"I'll read it to you later. Don't you have some cleaning to do?" I questioned playfully.

Her pale eyes flitted up from the pages. "This entire office is spotless. I'm not sure what else there is to do."

"I assure you, there is still much to be done."

She let out a small groan, closing the book dramatically.

"Don't give me that." I began towards her. "Would you rather be in the hospital? Or with Alana Bloom?"

"No."

"Then be glad you're with me, even if it means being bored to tears."

I leaned down before her and placed a hand on her thigh, smiling before I returned to my desk. "Would you mind dusting my shelves off, Abigail?"

"Yeah, alright."

Abigail retrieved the duster and went over to the shelves, brushing the feathers over the black elk sculpture delicately. She stood on tiptoe to fan off bits of dust from taller shelves. She knew as well as I did that I kept my office very clean and there was no real work to be done.

But how I loved to play these little games.

Perhaps noticing a faint layer of dust, Abigail carefully bent over and waved the duster over the bottom shelf, the gray film vanishing under the mass of plumage.

I smiled inwardly to myself as I approached her from behind, running my hand along the curve of her ass.

Abigail jolted up and whipped around, dropping the duster. Her wide eyes met mine with a pleasured surprise.

"You know the real reason you're here, Abigail."

My hands slipped back to her ass as I pulled her closer to my body, feeling her warmth and trembling hands. Her breath quivered as though I would grant her mercy, as though she could escape the intensity of the passion that lit flames below our bellies. One hand touched under her chin, tilting her head towards my lips.

A slow, drawn kiss.

I tensed my grip as she subtly began to grind her body against me, my tongue sampling hers.

She was playful, that was for certain, but she could not hide the rosy rash of blush across her face. Inwardly moaning, I dared not to release myself to her just yet, and I did my utter best to control my thoughts and hinder myself from realizing that the salty taste of her lips and sweet wetness of her tongue was the beginning of the fantasy I had always dwelt upon with each moment of free-time and before bed each and every night. I inhaled her and found she smelled of crushed daisies and drowsiness. I stroked her hair, rubbed my hands down the small of her back, pulled her closer to me. Between the avid caresses, all I could think was "mine".

I touched her hot, opening lips with caution and desire, but she, with an impatient wiggle, pressed her mouth to mine so hard I almost tasted her blood intermingled with the sugary saliva. A clever game she played, trying so desperately hard to sway me into taking her right there, on the chair of my office.

My lips scolded hers until I decided she had won and finally pulled her to the couch. I sat her on my lap. My clothes felt tight.

I breathed into her neck as her little hands clutched me desperately. My hands slipped under her shirt and tossed it aside, next unclasping her bra to cup her pale breasts.  
My mouth traced her collarbones. I delicately flicked my tongue across her nipples as her arms massaged my shoulders.

I took off my jacket. Abigail lunged at me, nearly tearing apart my shirt. Gently, I pulled away and proceeded even slower.

This angered her. I knew the heat was becoming unbearable in that tight body of hers but I loved to see her this way. I loved to see the fire in her cheeks and lips like licked red candy.

I took my precious time unbuttoning my shirt before removing the rest of my clothes.

Abigail seemed to pant with desire. She tore off her own pants and spread her legs, waiting impatiently.

I leaned over her and kissed her ear. Her hands slid up and down my back, across the nape of my neck, brushing my hair with her fingers. I kissed her lips, her chin, moving downwards. Anticipation began to build like static between us. She wiggled her hips excitedly, keeping her hands on me at all times. Watching.

I licked her milky thighs, kissing them roughly.

"You're exquisite, Abigail."

I began tugging on her panties with my teeth. She spread her legs farther. I pulled them off and tossed them aside.  
With her legs by my ears, I buried myself closer to her.

I swept my tongue over her hot clit. Goosebumps began to form on her thighs; her skin was crawling with bliss.

I allowed my mouth to toy with her, feeling her writhe as much as I could. She tasted of milk and honey. She tasted of burning, demolished youth. But my appetite was never satisfied when it came to Abigail.

I relished her whimpers and graceful moans as her nails clawed the cushions.  
My hands clenched onto her ass to hold her steady as her movements grew more violent. The pleasure began to build, her moans grew louder like a rising symphony. She bit her own lip with an uncontrollable desire.

"Fuck, Hannibal!" she whimpered.

I held her closer, lapping at her throbbing clit. Before this would get any farther, I pulled away.

Her face was hazy, as though illuminated by moonlight. I leaned over her and nipped at her neck while he positioned them both.

And I entered her.

Abigail gasped and drove her nails into my back. I sighed lustfully and buried my face into the scar on her neck while I fucked her.

The pace quickened.

She groaned, curling her toes. We embraced tighter.

I thrust into her harder, grunting. Her shaky breath was warm against my blushing skin.

In that moment, nothing could be more beautiful than the sound of her moans, the ample curves of her body, the burning sensation of her fingernails digging into my shoulder blades, her smooth skin pressed against mine.

I pinned her down against the couch, rocking the furniture, continuously ramming into her.  
And suddenly Abigail let out a loud cry of pleasure, her mouth tearing into my skin. I jolted from the sudden motion and pain, gripping her tight.

"Abigail!"

* * *

Once we had caught our breath and recovered, she buried herself between my arm and chest and handed me the book.

"You said you would read to me."

And so I did.

"...The huntsman consented, and led her away; but when he drew his cutlass to pierce Snow-White's innocent heart, she began to weep, and to say, 'Oh, dear huntsman, do not take my life; I will go away into the wild wood, and never come home again.' And as she was so lovely the huntsman had pity on her, and said, 'away with you then, poor child..."

But she had already fallen asleep.


	4. Petals

Her trembling hands pulled the trigger. Time slowed as the bullet broke through the man's forehead, a spray of blood dancing in the air. He fell to the ground like a rag doll in a baptism of his own cranial fluids.

"I did it." she breathed.

"Yes, you did."

* * *

We exercised the same process as before while butchering the man. This time I introduced her to the process of removing limbs. She caught on rather quickly and was soon sawing through bone effortlessly, as though it were child's play. She beamed with a distorted pride, an eerie glow to her big eyes like a full moon rising, her lips the color of pomegranate.

After we had cleaned the mess, the two of us went outside to bask in spring's air. Together we sat in silence, admiring the scenery. The trees were slowly returning to life, digging their gnarled roots into the soft and fertile earth. Flowers had sprung up from the undergrowth. Abigail crouched in the sea of white petals and began to pick a small bouquet.

She returned to sit beside me, a pile of blossoms in her lap, and braided a small wreath of daisies.

"I love spring." Her eyes were focused on her hands, meticulously braiding.

"It's lovely here, but you should see the spring where I am from."

"My mother taught me how to make these. We would sit by the willow tree and make a bunch of flower crowns and daisy chains."

I did not reply. I left her to her memories.

She tucked the last stem into her creation.

"My king." Abigail announced as she adorned my head with the crown.

I smiled at her. "Thank you."

She smiled in return, a smile of genuine pleasure that is all too rare in this world.

And she was all too rare herself.

I took a handful of the remaining flowers and began to work on a one myself. It was far more difficult than I had expected, especially considering how much larger my hands were in comparison to hers.

Noticing my struggles, she gentle placed her hands over mind and guided me, making motions and holding steady until it was complete.

Gently, I placed the crown over her soft, brown hair.

"My princess."


End file.
